


Fragility Heals

by ayeitsyasi



Series: After Sex [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Death of Irene Adler, Graphic Description, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mention of Prosopagnosia, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:07:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayeitsyasi/pseuds/ayeitsyasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it is quiet a competitive world after all. Sherlock doesn't forget who can distract him from the game.</p><p>Sherlock's point of view of After Sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragility Heals

"The, I have to get some air." Sherlock said, trying his very best to hide his lost countenance and flushed cheeks.

He saw John nod from the corner of his eye and then _swish_ the detective was out. Sherlock tried to get his now balanced legs to run down the stairs, because although he was sure John wouldn't follow him, there was always an alarming _yoo-hoo_ from Mrs. Hudson that practically glued him to the ground.

Sherlock liked Mrs. Hudson. Just like he liked how quiet and _right_ the street sounded when everyone was having Thanksgiving dinner and no was one rushing to work, staring at their watch like five year olds trying to figure out the time on clocks, and there was no little boy with not-so-hideous clothes trying to sell a pile of damp newspapers that smelled like old straws and tragedy.

He opened the front door and the smell of afternoon London found its way into his nostrils. He couldn't remember the last time he stood at a doorstep, appreciating the weather, it could be nice and a change for a man who had always only acknowledged brilliantly planned murders and criminals that leave clues to make everyone think they're stupid. What they are in fact, is marvelous and admirable but Sherlock has learnt not to say that in front of Lestrade or John. Or Anderson, Jesus the man would lose a kidney trying to convince everyone that Sherlock belongs to an insane asylum.

He looked around as he walked down the pavement, trying to stay in the shadows that would go away in minutes. He had no purpose, no intentions of where to go, but it was fine because as long as he had something to think about in his mind, he could keep sane wandering off in the streets, pace slow and hands in pockets.

He knew what John was doing at the moment, hitting replay and trying to work out if either everything that had just happened was real, or if it was just acute prosopagnosia. Sherlock himself though, wasn't like that. He was very, very normal at the moment. That sort when he feels and talks English. Clear, common English. That sort when his face feels hot and the farms of his mind aren't irrigated with rivers of science. That sort when he once talked about to John and got a slap in response because his friend apparently "never wanted him to be like that."

If there was a story that Sherlock was in, preferably as the protagonist, the author would presumptively describe him all wrong and abnormal --the words defined with Sherlock's own definition of course--. Not that Sherlock is actually a soft soul who got his bike stollen from him by his brother and now he well bloody hates him and London altogether so he decides to solve somewhat brilliant and scarring crimes for a living, but he also isn't a cold hearted bastard --as John once called him when he was constantly smiling and saying _"Fascinating! Gripping!"_ over and over once he found out that a psychotic murderer had taken out the intestines of his dead hostages' corpses and mailed them to their families to give them a hint of their loved one's state-- who spun around and played selfish to make others think that even his exaggerations were nothing but the truth.

Of course to explain Sherlock Holmes was a long Christmas tale itself, but Sherlock had forgotten himself and his story in the span of an hour, about fifteen minutes ago.

_Sherlock was in the lab, studying plastic containers each having a different kind of flash powder in them. He had seen a lot of cases like this one before, the killer made the victim consume dynamites or firecrackers and they would be dead minutes later. It amazed Sherlock when he saw it happen himself the first time, the acidic gastric juice would try to digest the explosive devices and then boom!_

_"Works better than fire!" Sherlock had said with wide eyes and a shallow smirk. John had elbowed him._

_This case though, was different. The killer had started taking action a week before every single one of his victims were found dead in their flats, each seemed to be doing what they did on a normal daily basis._

_Martin Shaw the killer, had bought a flat in Molyneux Street back in July which was two months ago before the "Week of Explosions", a title for the papers to describe the incident. He had claimed that he was from Vail, Colorado and was traveling to the UK to work for his poor family back in their homeland. After he had gained the trust of all of his neighbors, he had lied about his wife having a new baby back in Colorado and so he invited all of his neighbors to seven different restaurants for seven days to celebrate. All of the neighbors died after each consuming multiple grams of microscopic packed match heads and swallowing down explosive flash powder. Martin Shaw was not found after that and the police took the whole building down after that event._

_Sherlock had spent days getting blood of each five victims and admiring the killer's remarkable work. In the end, he found out that the ashes left of bits of the match heads were all the same, but there was something different and hardly noticeable about the flash powder inside of each person's body; they were all different brands of firecrackers. So Sherlock was now spending most of his days in the lab trying to figure out the meaning of this conundrum of a case._

_"Well, what if it was just an accident?" Said Molly, her expression hovering between confused and confident._

_"It is never an_ accident _." He opened up the third plastic container. "They are all different. The killer wants to communicate with us, using explosion and brands."_

_"That doesn't, quite make any sense." Her expression was now definitely only confused._

_Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but he was interrupted by Lestrade storming in, panting._

_"We need you at 44 Eaton Square. It's urgent."_

_"Oh for God's sake, Grim! I have a phone and so do you. It's quite useful for--" going over Lestrade's sentence in his head, he remembered something._

_He knew that address. Pale English skin and a blood shade of lipstick. That was Irene Adler's Residence. The Woman who's mark was left on Sherlock for a long time and The Woman that he was truly, doubtlessly_ stunned _by._

_"Alright, let's go."_

_Sherlock ran to the door and picked up his coat, Lestrade flying out behind him. Molly walked over to the containers and closed all three that were open. She sighed and decided to go out and get some crisps, thinking about flash powders and a new brain that had arrived yesterday._

Sherlock stood in the middle of the pavement. 44 Eaton wasn't a busy street. Maybe it was of Irene's favorites to live in an isolated area. He stared at the policemen who were still on the stairs. The front door was open and Sherlock tried his best not to run inside and investigate for himself.

_They arrived at 44 Eaton Square. The distinctive ribbed pillars with black bases marked the facades of the Irene's residence. But the air was thick and there was an ambulance parked in front of the building._

_Sherlock ran to it._

_Anderson wasn't quiet successful to make Sherlock wait and listen to the new names he had came up with for him._

_Sherlock could hear his own pulse thumping crazily as he approached the police standing around the ambulance, they instantly let him go through. Sherlock's heart was almost stopped when he saw her body on a stretcher._

_Her hair was everywhere and her skin was even more pale, pallor even. Her lips were fresh violet and the blush on her cheeks seemed to be floating in the air, alive powder on dead skin seemed so, so wrong. The rest of her body was covered under a white blanket but Sherlock could see green lace covering her collarbones._

_He stepped closer. She was wearing golden earrings with tiny diamonds planted on them, circular and shiny, but you had to get close to notice them. God, Sherlock admired this woman so._

_As he was standing there, he realized that there were voices talking in his head. Rather loudly and clearly._

_"She made it quieter."_

_He took several steps back and the only noticeable thing about Irene Adler was now eye catching lipstick and divine hair._

_"She understood."_

Sherlock turned around and didn't look back. He wanted the last picture saved in his mind to be a pallor, lifeless, but goddess like Irene Adler.

_Sherlock turned around and didn't look back. He wanted the last picture saved in his mind to be a pallor, lifeless, but goddess like Irene Adler._

_"She was **me**."_

He got a cab and decided he needed to go home, decided he needed to get his mind off things again.

_Sherlock started running. Fighting the wind and the urge to turn around and reassure his mind of Irene's death. He knew if he reassured himself, he would count her death twice as more painful and loud._

_He was running faster now but he couldn't hear his own shoes stepping on the asphalt, or his breath that was hitching, or the cabbie that almost made his car explode, honking loudly enough for an old lady to look out his window and curse._

" _London is too blusterous."_

Sherlock paid the cabbie and stood in front of their door.

_Sherlock stood in front of their door, trying to catch his breath._

He looked for his keys and unlocked the door. Quiet.

_He looked for his keys and unlocked the door. Quiet._

He thought about Irene and winced. He knew his colleague could get his mind off things. He had comforted him a lot in many situations, when he was way too angry at a client for interrupting a piece he was playing with her boring story, or when he didn't have a case for weeks and had started stabbing their sofa with a kitchen knife.

He knew it took John to calm him down.

_He knew it took John to calm him down._

His steps were fast but careful, he reached upstairs and click opened the door, searching.

_His steps were fast but careful, he reached upstairs and click opened the door, panting._

John was sitting in his chair, he got up and cleared his throat. Walking towards the kitchen he asked "Tea?"

As John reached for a new cup, Sherlock started walking and stood behind him. His blonde hair smelled like shampoo and sweat. There was a purple spot on the side of his neck, Sherlock smiled.

"Jesus." Said John, turning around with a hot cup of tea in his hand, eyes glassy and lips a bit swollen. Sherlock tried his very best for the second time in a day not to smile.

Sherlock looked down at the cup John was holding, he got it and set it on the table behind him. He then leaned his face closer to John's and carefully placed his hands on his waist. He both hated and loved John in a shirt.

"Thank you, John." He managed to whisper before kissing him, tenderly and carefully. John was leaning back against the sink and his eyebrows were shot upwards in confusion.

A blurry image of pink blush and lifeless face ghosted in front of Sherlock's eyes. He knew his colleague could distract him and his brilliant brain.

"Get my mind off things again." Sherlock interrupted.

"God, yes."

And that did it. Sherlock was pushed back so very carefully and in an instant his coat and John's only piece of clothing was thrown on a chair. They stumbled into the room and shut the door.

A very familiar smell attacked Sherlock's nose and he loved it so much, he stopped breathing. With his mouth occupied with John's and his nose smelling the air, he practically wasn't breathing. It was nice, getting dizzy and dancing around suffocation while John took his clothes off. John was always nice, like a the last chapter of a school book or the last bit of melting snow in the gardens.

"You know, you never got the chance to tell me what was wrong." John interrupted and Sherlock's lungs were to breathe again.

"Irene." Murmured a now half naked Sherlock.

John unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers, taking way too long on each button.

"She is dead." Sherlock said, raising his hand to rub circles on John's shoulders. "She was brilliant."

He had such amazing shoulders for such a tiny man. His body hair was shining in the dim lighted room, his blonde, almost unnoticeable body hair.

"She thought you were brilliant too, you know."

"I do."

"Good." John said leaning in and giving Sherlock a quick peck. "Now let me help you forget it."

The thing is, he was right. He would always help Sherlock forget what was boggling his mind. Irene Adler though, wasn't just a piece of useless information to be saved and remembered in someone's mind. She was grace and the resemblance of power. She made the world much quieter and bearable because she was Sherlock, and Sherlock never doubted himself.

John Watson was also different on so many levels, from other people. He wasn't ordinary or boring or trying to get his way by sweet talking or exaggerating about himself. He made Sherlock marooned on Now in the best way possible. He didn't have cynicism about the future, but he wasn't anxious about it either. He might be the symbol for bravery in Sherlock's mind, and he also might be art that's been drawn single handed by the most popular artist in the world.

He could take a roundabout and say John and Irene were the two most important people in his life, but that would sound too ordinary now, wouldn't it? It would and Sherlock is no ordinary sod, so he left John an open book and Irene a closed book with so many different bookmarks.

 


End file.
